Before They Ruled Us

They look like us.

If you can ignore that their skin appears in the ‘wrong’ colour. So I heard Mama whisper at night. I don’t mind it. Their colour looks a lot like milk. Their skin looks it too, fragile. Like when it turns a furious red where it remains exposed to the sun. But they have eyes like we do even though the colour of their eyes is different, a nose like we do…even teeth like ours and it seems they use all of those parts the same we do. Mama will not listen to this logic. She calls them all sort of unseemly names but no one will listen to her. The rest, because she is a woman; me, because she is wrong.

The day they came, all twelve of them, Ntunga marched them straight to the palace and the main hut where ‘kyabazinga’ sits. He has not stopped telling that story since he went as though he did more than walk. And now he puffs up with some sort of importance like he knows more than the rest of us do. Like he is better than us. He has taken to giving orders as though he is ‘kyabazinga’s’ right hand and drinking ‘tonto’ all day instead of working.

We don’t share much more than what we may appear like. They have hair too that grows in all the places ours grows. Except theirs doesn’t stick out upward and is not as dark and packed thickly together. They have outer coverings for their bodies. Things that cover their chest and their legs. Don’t they feel so hot trapped under those things! With the sun being as merciless as it usually is. Mama said the gods didn’t make us with those things; it is an insult to them to alter our appearance like that. ‘Would you know a hen for what it is if it covered itself like that?’ She asked. I think I would. The same way I can tell that they are men like us even with all their coverings. But I don’t dare say that to her. She didn’t ask that question because she wanted an answer.

Another strange thing about these visitors; they don’t seem to speak any language we have heard before. The big men in charge have taken to trying to communicate with hands. There is one of them who draws some things. I think the drawings are better than moving their hands. Ntunga said they are very good pictures. You can see what they are talking about. Most of them gave the food a strange look before they ate it but they eat like we do - food in hand and into the mouth. They have some strange tool they keep by their waist that they wield like a weapon. It couldn’t possibly be though. It has nothing on our long spears. I was taken on one hunting trip and I saw those spears bring down an elephant. I don’t think many of them will survive out there by themselves.  

They managed to make it here on their own so they must not be as hopeless as they appear. Even though they have been very sickly since they came. They don’t trust the potions the medicine man tries to give them. They will die, he says. It is sad that they will die without their people. Who will perform their burial rituals?

Or maybe they are all alone.

I think, despite all my plans to run away from my village, it must be hard to be so far away from home.

I wonder what their insides are like, is their blood red too? I wonder so many things about their way of life too.

Mama insists that we need to know the reason why they are here. Do they plan on staying? And where are the rest of their people? What happened to their village that they come all this way, was it ravaged by wild beasts or were they cursed by the gods? She says there is something untrustworthy about them even though they have given us no reason to doubt them yet. At least I haven’t seen anything to cause me to be on high alert around them. Mama won’t say this around the older men. But she feels safe saying them around me even though at my age, I should be considered one of the men. Because of my silence, she probably thinks I agree with her. I don’t.

And I don’t mind that they are here. I think this is the most interesting thing that has happened in this village since the last tribal raid. But I wasn’t there for the raid as I am here for this.

***

Mama thinks I spend so much time thinking about what the strange visitors are doing rather than paying attention to my chores. She is concerned that it will lower my standing in the village even further if I continue to display these differences from the people. But I don’t mind now. If the strange visitors are from so far off a place, it means there is a whole world out there and maybe I could find someplace where I fit in just right. There is not so much that’s wrong about home except that I will never be one of the men here.

No, not here.

Not when I cried for days after the hunting trip. ‘If you can’t stand to see it die, you shouldn’t eat it.’ Ba spat at me as he tried to shake me out of my crying. He enforced this thought of his and now I only get some if I go to Mama before she has to serve it to the rest of the family. I can’t fight either. I don’t have the body build for it but I’ll say that it is because I don’t eat enough meat. I have been bruised and broken so much that Mama begged Ba to let me out of the community games. She doesn’t care that it makes me more of an outcast. And now I have stopped caring too. Now, that there is a possibility of another world out there where I maybe don’t have to do any of those things.

The strangers are now down to ten men. Two of them died because they scoffed at our potions.

One of them looks at everything here with interest and glee. The first day here, after the large feast for the ‘kyabazinga’s' guests, he went on studying the huts like he had never seen anything like it before. He touched it and tried to pull out reeds from the roof. I wonder what they live in. Maybe they live in trees like the monkeys. I follow him around everywhere when I’m not doing anything. Everything about this place seems to excite him. He went to the forest today and paused at almost every tree and animal and bird. I can see the wonder in his eyes. Like he is seeing something for the first time. It was the same look I had when they walked through our little village. Wherever he is from, it must be far far away from here.

He is not like the rest of his friends though. I think that is why I like him. We are a little alike. He doesn’t fit in with his people, at least the ones he came with and I don’t fit in with my village, the whole of it. He talks a lot even though he must know that I don’t understand anything he says. He does something with a short stick and a collection of very smooth stones. Or wood. He calls it ‘writing’. I repeated it after him because he seemed to want me to. When I said it, I must not have pronounced it right because he kept repeating it till I said something acceptable. He is glad when I repeat words after him. He points at things as though he is teaching me. But he is not. I just know what they are called in my language. He pointed at ‘maadhi’ and called it ‘water’ till I got it right. I repeat them anyway and feel a little proud and bad at the same time. It makes me think what they are called in our language is inadequate or wrong. He doesn’t seem to want to repeat them in my language. Even then, I think I am making a friend.

I like what he does with the short stick and the smooth tool best. He called it paper and pen. He has seen my interest and has been pushing the short stick, I mean pen, my way. I think he is trying to teach me how to do it. He is very eager to share his ways even though he doesn’t want to pick up ours. He likes me enough. He smiles when he looks at me, like he knows I can just be his friend. Anyway, I don’t think such people can wish us ill. They eat our food and sit with us; they sleep in our huts and have no problem cheering on the community wrestling games that go on.

I asked Ba if we also did some ‘writing’. He didn’t seem to understand it at first and I had to explain. Of course he slapped me for asking stupid questions. I know it is only a question he thinks is stupid. Maybe because he doesn’t have an answer for it. What good is writing, he asked, does it put meat on the table? Does it protect the village from wild animals and enemy tribes?

I asked one of the elders and he said we do have a form of record and isn’t that all writing is. We have rock paintings if I want something tangible but our record lives better in men. That’s why I should listen to all our stories and pass them on to our children. He smiled at me and said that maybe I could be the next storyteller in the village. Preserve who we are. I have all the makings for it, he said, I’m curious and have a good strong voice. It made me glad for a while. To think that I could have a place in the future of the village. And not just any place but a vital one. It also made me feel like a traitor for wanting to go away with the strangers when they continue on their way.

***

The men had a meeting with the chief yesterday. I was not in attendance officially. They thought I had gone off to sleep. As I should have been. But something assured me that they were going to talk about the strangers. And I was right! I waited till they were all seated and drinking their alcohol, too occupied to notice me slip in beside them in the dark. He says that the white men don’t mean us any harm. Which is also what I had been thinking. As far as he could tell there is nothing wrong with them. I could have told them that too. He says they come from a distant land and are looking to buy and sell us some goods. That doesn’t sound strange at all. During the famine, we have given some tribes that come by some of our food and they give us something in exchange. This is something we can understand. They also want to see our beautiful land. The men grunt in agreement at this. Land is everything – wars have been fought over it and they can’t wait to show it off.

He also insists that they are just passing through. They will restock their supplies and continue on their way. We have nothing to fear. He repeated that phrase as though he didn’t quite believe it himself and was trying to reassure himself as much as us. After that, the men took to spreading the goods among themselves. Most of them were their strange coverings.

I want to be a part of the group that will take them on a tour. I may have to wiggle my way into the trip since I am sure they won’t pick me even though I volunteer. Maybe I can pay Ntunga in some manner, I’m sure he’ll be leading the trip. Maybe I could do some of his chores, give him a report on some of the boys, speak to Twaala on his behalf – she seems to like me more, treat him a little like the god he seems to think he is.

***

The strange men, now only seven, have been here for two planting seasons. I think they like it here. We’ve done our done our best to show them that we are not an enemy. War gets tiresome sometimes and ‘kyabazinga’ is old now. It will be a while before the next one is ready to lead. They are getting ready to move on to the next tribe. They want to see a lot more of the land. They are going further in the direction of the setting sun. I hope they know that most of the tribes that way are not friendly.

They say there are more of them coming. It’s just a matter of time. Mama says this doesn’t bode well, that if we allow these strangers in our land the gods will desert us. I think this is great news.

What could possibly go wrong?